A Strange Band on a Common Thread
by Squirrly Donut
Summary: PostDH AU.  This story follows most DH canon except for the next gen., which are an old creation of mine.  All of the wizarding world have an idea of what the son of the legindary Harry Potter should be like, but do those ideas match with the real Erik?
1. Lessons and Cards

A.N.1: You may recognize the title of this story because this is a new and improved version that I'm reposting. This fic takes place 3 years after the beginning of its first version, which got screwed up.

A.N.2: Now, on to the important stuff. I've had these next gen. characters for a couple of years now, and I decided that there's no reason why I should abandon them now that they're AU. Overall, this fic will be some sort of odd combination of post-DH and AU, because I will use information from DH, except for the epilogue. And coincidentally, this _does_ take place nineteen years after the end of book 7. So _pleeease_ give the fic a chance and R&R!

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I sit down at the Gryffindor table, a bit weak in the knees, as my new housemates clap and cheer. The Hat had seriously considered putting me in Ravenclaw, but decided on Gryffindor in the end. I really would've been fine with either or. I watch as eight more of my yearmates get sorted before Professor Sinistra finally calls out, "Weasley, Fiona!"

_Please be in Gryffindor, please be in Gryffindor_, I hope, clutching the bench that I'm sitting on. Fiona's my twin; or should I say my "twin". We're technically cousins and look rather different; but we act like twins and we're almost exactly the same age (she's 2 days older than me). After what seems like forever, the hat hollers, "Gryffindor!"

I think I'm probably cheering the loudest of everyone as she sits down beside me. Fiona's a bit taller than me, freckled, has curly, flaming red hair, and shockingly bright blue eyes. A couple more people get sorted and it's done. In a second, all sorts of food and drink appear on the tables. A few other first years gasp in surprise. I don't, as my older sister Beatrice had told me about this ages ago. I take a bit of steak, salad, Yorkshire pudding, and an egg roll (Hogwarts now apparently serves Chinese). The entire hall goes back to talking and us firsties all start getting to know each other. There are fourteen Gryffindors in my year, seven girls and seven boys. I hope the dormitories are big.

"Aren't you hungry?" the boy across from me asks half an hour later as he takes second helpings. I remember his name to be Jason Corner.

"I always get full fast," I tell him with a shrug. I hate that stuffed feeling, and anything more than one non-heaping plateful would result in that for me. Maybe that's why I'm so short (borderline midget) and skinny.

In what seems like no time, Professor McGonagall, the headmistress, dismisses us and people flock towards the doors. "First years!" hollers Patrick. "Come on! Follow me to the common room!" Patrick is Fiona's older brother; he's a fifth year Prefect.

We go after him up seven flights of stairs, along several hallways, and stop in front of a portrait of a fat lady wearing a pink dress. I wonder if she sings… "Password?" she asks.

"Ostrich feather," says Patrick. The portrait swings open to reveal a large, kind of threadbare room decorated in various warm shades. There are large windows across from us, a fireplace with a roaring fire to the right, a couple of sofas, several armchairs, and an assortment of tables and chairs all over the place. There are also two doors. "Girls' dormitories through the door to the right, boys' through the left," Patrick tells us as more students pile in through the portrait hole.

"'Night, Erik," says Fiona, heading towards the girls' dorms.

"'Night!" I call after her, heading up the left staircase with the other boys.

On the fifth landing, I reach a door labeled FIRST YEAR BOYS. Going in, I find a big, circular room with seven four-poster beds, six windows, and four wardrobes for things that need to be hung. Each bed has its own night stand and set of drawers. Hmm, not bad. The trucks had been brought up and placed at the foot of every bed; mine is the third one from the left.

As I'm laying there in my bed, all warm and comfortable, I start to grow really restless as soon as I'm awake. I feel like sleeping some more, but I know that the urge to get up and move won't be satisfied until I do so. I climb out of bed and see that it's only 6:30 A.M. I shower and get dressed, checking my appearance in the mirror before going downstairs. I really do look almost exactly like dad, except that my eyes are a darker green, I don't wear glasses, and my hair isn't _quite_ as messy.

The common room's deserted this early in the morning, but I can hear doors opening and closing, a sign of people starting to wake up and get ready. I sit down on a squishy sofa and pull my book from my backpack. It's a Muggle classic called _Prince Caspian_, by C. S. Lewis. It's part of The Chronicles of Narnia; which are pretty good, if a bit weird at times.

Fiona comes down an hour later and we head out of the portrait hole. After we wander around for a bit, trying to remember how to get to the Great Hall, we run into Beatrice and a couple of her friends. "Bea!" Fiona calls, running after them. "We can't remember where the Great Hall is!"

Beatrice stops to wait for us. She's in her fourth year and has long ago learned her way around. Beatrice (a.k.a. Bea or Trixie), looks a lot like mum and has the same brown eyes, but her hair is raven black and she has only a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. There's no denying that she took most of the good looks in the gene pool. "Come on, then," she says, and continues on down to breakfast. We follow gratefully. I look around carefully so that I'll later remember the way.

After breakfast, we have Defense Against the Dark Arts along with the Ravenclaws. "Hello class," Professor Jordan says brightly once everyone shows up. "I'm Professor Lee Jordan and I'm going to be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts. The name of the class is pretty self-explanatory.

"There are many ways to defend yourself from unfriendly spells and creatures. Today we'll be starting with one of the most basic forms of defense: disarming your opponent."

Professor Jordan goes on to explain the finer points of the spell, the wand motion, and the incantation: _expelliarmus_. Twenty minutes into the lesson, Jordan moves the desks and chairs to the side of the room and has us practice disarming each other. I'm paired with Dominic Peatry, who's a very ordinary looking boy with short, light brown hair and a narrow yet square face.

"_Expelliarmus_!" he shouts. A strong gust of wind hits me, but I manage to hold on to my wand.

When I try to disarm Dominic I only succeed in ruffling his hair. As everyone's practicing, Jordan walks around among the pairs to see how they're doing and correcting them. He reaches me and Dominic when it's my turn again. "Erik!" he says expectantly. "Come on now; let's see how well you can do it!"

"_Expelliarmus_!" I shout, pointing my wand at Dominic. Again, I only tousle his hair as his wand stays firmly in his hand.

"Oh well, just keep trying," sighs Jordan, moving on to Fiona and Hyacinth. I feel a stir of annoyance at his disappointment. What was he expecting?

Our first afternoon class is History of Magic. A few people have told me about the previous history teacher, Professor Binns. He was the most boring ghost any of them had ever encountered, and I can't believe my good luck.

Last year, Professor Binns mysteriously vanished (some recon that he was finally sick of teaching) to be replaced by Professor Ayala, the coolest, youngest teacher to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts. Or so Bea tells me.

Fiona and I relentlessly search for the History of Magic classroom, but it still takes us half an hour to find it, and we're ten minutes late. We rush into what we're sure is finally the right classroom and almost everybody is already there. "Sorry we're late, Professor," Fiona immediately apologizes as we skid to a stop.

"No problem," Professor Ayala says cheerfully from the front of the room. I can't help but stare. If I didn't know it already, I would've never guessed that she's a teacher. I can't tell exactly how old she is, but Ayala can't be that much older than the seventh years. She's also incredibly pretty. Professor Ayala's obviously Hispanic, with her wavy dark brown hair, big, brown eyes, and warm-looking bronze skin. She's kind of short and curvy.

I sit down in the second row from the front next to Fiona, who quirks an amused eyebrow at me. "What?" I mouth silently. I'm going to pay _very_ close attention in this class.

"Hey everyone, I'm Professor Ayala. This year you all will be learning about the early history of the wizarding world," Ayala begins. She has a really cute Spanish accent. "I could, of course, lecture you on and on, but I'm sure you'd all get very board with that, and so would I. So in this class you'll be doing projects and giving your own opinions as well as learning stuff from the book and listening to me talk.

"This term we'll be covering the ancient wizards of Egypt, Greece, and Rome, as well as a bit about British wizards (but they didn't do many interesting things back then). To start off, what are some of the things you all know about ancient wizards?"

Mine and Fiona's hands go up at the same time, as well as those of a few others. I'm hoping to make a good impression on Professor Ayala. "Yes, ummm," says Ayala, pointing at Fiona.

"Fiona Weasley. Egyptian wizards put all sorts of nasty curses on their tombs that made anyone who broke in grow extra limbs and everything."

"Right," she nods and then looks at me. "Anything else to add? Oh, and everyone, tell me your names when I call on you."

"Erik Potter. I, er, was going to say the same thing."

"Ok…" She moves on to other people. Why did Fiona have to think of the same thing I did? As usual…

After dinner, Fiona and I get about halfway to Gryffindor tower before we have to follow a gaggle of third years for the rest of the way. We're learning. Upon climbing through the portrait hole, I plant myself in a squishy armchair. The only homework assigned is a chapter to read for Transfiguration; I can do that tomorrow.

A moment later, Dominic comes up to me, carrying a stack of cards. "We're looking for people to play spoons, wanna join us?" he asks.

"OK, what are 'spoons'?"

"I'll explain later. Fiona?"

In a few minutes, nine of us are sitting in a circle: me, Fiona, Dom, Jason, Hyacinth, Quin, Aletha, Julian, and Lynetta. "Listen up," says Dominic. He's shuffling a pack of playing cards. "In spoons, you always have four cards and you try to get them to be all of the same suite. The way that's done is that one person has the deck and passes the cards along one by one, sending them around the circle. When you get a card that you need, you keep it and pass on one of your own that you don't need."

He pauses, takes out a handful of spoons from his pocket, and puts all eight of them in a row in the middle of the circle. "I nicked 'em from the Great Hall during dinner," Dom mutters to me and I grin. He then continues, "as soon as you have four cards of a kind, you immediately garb a spoon. Everybody is supposed to grab a spoon too when they see somebody else grab one. There's always one less spoon than there are people, so whoever is left without a spoon is out. Got it?" Heads nod all around.

Dom stops shuffling and deals out the cards. I have a four, a ten, a king, and a queen. Dom picks up a card from the deck, glances at it, and passes it to me. I glance at it (a seven), and pass it on to Julian. We keep going like this for a while; and I replace my four and queen with tens.

Then, Quin snatches up a spoon and we all dive for them. I grab a spoon, but Lynetta is left trying to get at mine, which I quickly hold out of the way. She, and one of the spoons, is out as the game continues.

"How do you sit like that?" Dom wonders, noticing the way I sit, as he shuffles the deck for the third time. (Jason was the second person to be out)

"Why?" I ask, looking down at my lap. I'm sort of kneeling, but my thighs a turned partially inwards so that my lower legs are to the side (on the outside) of them. Fiona's sitting the same way. "I guess I'm just flexible," I say. Dom shakes his head in a bemused way. It probably looks very uncomfortable to him.

Eventually it's down to just Aletha and me; we sit across from each other with the remaining spoon in between. She passes me the cards at top speed and I discard them. Just one more ace…

_Aha!_ I snatch it up, throw aside my non-matching card, and grab the spoon a split second before she realizes that I just won. I "woo hoo!" holding up the spoon. Aletha throws her cards at me, pretending to be mad. Naturally, we all start flinging cards at each other, scattering them all around the common room and making a good deal of noise. I notice one of the fussier Prefects glare at us, but no one cares.


	2. Beware the Broom, Enjoy the Slug

**Beware the Broom, Enjoy the Slug**

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Twenty eight of us first years are lined up in two lines facing each other and there's an old school broomstick lying next to each person. The slightly cool September breeze tugs on the hems of people's robes. "Alright, when I blow my whistle, mount your brooms, kick off, and come back down!" Madam Hooch commands loudly, her voice carrying over the grounds. She blows her whistle. 

I throw my leg over my broom and kick off. I fly up about fifteen feet and look around. Almost everyone is in the air at various heights, except for a couple of students who are still stuck on the ground. _This isn't so hard_, I think, and then fly back down, landing fairly gracefully.

Madam Hooch looks surprised that nothing has gone dramatically wrong yet. We do this a couple of more times, until everyone can at least hover sufficiently. "Good job!" says Madam Hooch. "Now, I want the first seven students on my right to get up in the air as we practiced and then fly in a circle above this class; and try not to fly directly over anyone so as to prevent any accidents."

I'm the last one in this group. We all kick off perfectly and start our loop. This is pretty easy, I'm sure I can speed up. And I do, passing them all with the wind whipping through my hair and robes. I lean slightly to the left, ready to make a smooth turn.

But I don't. As well as turning, my broom starts to spin like a drill, me holding on for dear life. "AAAAGGHHHH!!!" I screech at the top of my lungs. I try my best to stop, to land, to _anything_ as long as it gets me off of this broom! I can hear sounds below me on the ground, but my mind doesn't register any of them.

After what seems like hours, I somehow manage to get the broom closer to the ground before falling off onto the thankfully cushioning grass. Seconds later I hear a small, distant crash which I think was my broomstick. Whatever.

Amazingly nothing really hurts as of yet and I manage to stagger to my feet. Everybody runs towards me, Fiona and Madam Hooch in the lead. Some look worried while others just look amused. "I'm OK," I gasp when they reach me, starting to feel a bit queasy. I take a couple of very unsteady steps to prove this. My legs give out, I knock into Fiona, and everything goes black.

I slowly crack open my eyes to see an expanse of blue with occasional fluffs of white floating by. I groan. There's a dull ache in my head and I can still feel twinges of queasiness in my stomach. My lovely view of the sky is interrupted when three heads suddenly appear in my line of vision. They belong to Dom, Fiona, and Madam Hooch.

"How long was I out?" I mumble.

"Only a few minutes," says Madam Hooch briskly. "Considering your quick revival, I suspect that your passing out was due to just severe dizziness and not actual injury."

_Oh goodie_, I think.

"Not cool, mate," winces Dom. "You screamed like a little girl."

I slowly sit up, hoping that it will make me seem slightly less pathetic. The motion sends a new wave of dizziness through me, but I force myself not to keel over again.

"Perhaps you should drop by the hospital wing," advises Hooch.

"No thanks, I'm OK." I stagger up and sway a little before properly steadying myself. For the rest of the lesson I stand off to the side, glad that my part in it is over. At least I gave the school a reason to get at least one new broom.

Dom, Fiona, Hyacinth, and I are sitting around a big table in the common room, working on homework. I have discovered that it really is a bad idea to put it off for too long. As we're all scratching away with our quills, Fiona suddenly looks up with a wide eyed look of realization.

"It's Ivy's birthday," she says, still staring at the opposite window where a fine drizzle can be seen falling outside. It's 23 September, and therefore Ivy's fourteenth birthday. Ivy's Fiona's sister and a third year.

"Damn it, I forgot. Too late for birthday presents now, isn't it?"

"Yeah, we should at least wait up and wish her a happy birthday. I think she's at Quidditch practice right now."

About fifteen minutes later, the birthday girl slouches in through the portrait hole, slightly damp and carrying her broomstick.

"Happy birthday!" we shout, rushing up to hug her.

"How was Quidditch practice?" I ask looking up at Ivy. At 5'7 she's a full head taller than me.

"Shit," Ivy replies casually, collapsing onto the sofa. She's got a cockney accent that she probably picked up from her local friends. (I mean local at home, not here) "If it weren't for me, Linda, n' Tyrell the team could resign from all the games now."

"Whatever, they can't be worse than Erik," Fiona tells her cheerily. I choose to ignore this comment as I sit down beside Ivy. As well as being really tall, Ivy's got long red hair that she always wears in a ponytail, brown eyes, a long nose, and freckles.

"So, am I gettin' any presents?" Ivy asks hopefully.

"Eh, sorry, I'm afraid not." says Fiona.

"But we could do your homework for you tonight," I offer.

"Er, no thanks. I'd don't really fancy gettin' at T on every essay."

"You usually get Ds, anyway. What's the difference?"

"Shut up, Erik."

Fiona looks at the portrait hole, gets up, and strides over to it. She'd noticed Bea coming in carrying a couple of cups filled with something steaming. Fiona says something that I can't hear from here, smiles widely, and takes one of the cups, which she brings back and gives to Ivy. It's filled with hot chocolate and a few marshmallows.

"Ooo, thanks," says Ivy, taking a sip. I have a feeling that the hot chocolate never reached its intended receiver. She proceeds to gulp it down once it's a bit cooler. We all hang around for another hour before going to bed.

We've had three Astronomy lessons so far and I've discovered that I'm not bad at it. I'm absolute crap. No offense to Professor Sinistra, but to me the night sky just looks like a jumble of stars with a big, fat moon in the middle and I don't take any enjoyment in trying to sort out the whole mess.

So here I am sitting in the Astronomy Tower as Professor Sinistra rattles on about the constellations that are visible at this time of year. We're supposed to be taking notes. Whatever.

My mind drifts to what I had for dinner; which was a nasty looking, but good tasting, mush with eggplant. Eggplants look funny, kind of like slugs. Uncle Ron once told me about a spell that makes you puke slugs. I wonder where those slugs come from. Are they transported from somewhere, or are they just conjured? Where do they go after someone pukes them? Do they just live wherever they end up? Sudsy would be a good name for a slug. Alliteration, you know…

I pick up my quill and write _The Life and Adventures of Sudsy the Slug _at the top of my Astronomy notes, which up till now were blank. Skipping a line, I begin to write.

_Sudsy was a small, ordinary slug. He was about 2 in. long, the greenish, yellowish, grayish color of congested boogies, and rather slimy. Overall not bad, for a slug._

_One day, Sudsy was crawling along, minding his own business and looking for a nice snack of leaves (or whatever the crap slugs eat), when, suddenly…_

I write a couple of paragraphs about Sudsy before we're dismissed from class. It details what I think it would be like to be transported into somebody's throat and then thrown up. As I follow the rest of my class down the spiral staircase it occurs to me that I didn't take in a word of the lesson. Oh well, better hope that we don't have a surprise quiz during next week's lesson.

"Hagrid's invited us for tea," says Fiona the next morning at breakfast. A fluffy brown owl has just delivered her a note.

"When?" I ask, shoving a tangerine slice into my mouth.

"Tomorrow at four [that would be Saturday. Now come on, Transfiguration's in fifteen minutes." I throw my bag over my shoulder and follow her out the Great Hall, not looking forward to spending an hour and a half in Professor Ashcroft's presence. She's the Transfiguration teacher and her great dislike for Beatrice has to some degree passed down to me too, even though I haven't done much to earn it yet. I've heard a rumor that the only person in this school that Ashcroft likes even less than Bea is Professor Ayala. I'm not sure why, but I do have a couple of ideas.

The next day, Fiona and I walk down to Hagrid's cabin by the forest and knock on the heavy front door. We're wrapped up in our warm hoodies, as it's starting to get chilly and distinctly fall-ish. "Oh, hullo ye two," Hagrid says brightly, letting us in. As soon as we enter, a cubby, golden puppy with a stubby little tail runs up to us, panting and bouncing around in excitement. "This is Lyre, he's me new Crup."

Fiona bends down to pet Lyre. "Awww, aren't you a cute wittle puppy," she baby-talks at him as Hagrid goes about making tea.

"So how've ye been?" asks Hagrid once we're all sitting around the scrubbed wooden table with cups of tea the size of small buckets. Lyre has firmly planted himself on Fiona's foot. "I hear ye've had yer firs' flyin' lesson last week. How'd it go?"

"I really wish that I could tell you how great it went," I say. "But I can't."

"Why?"

"In a nutshell, I lost control of my broom, screamed like a little girl, fell off, and fainted."

Hagrid cringes sympathetically. "Ah well, ye can't be a natural at everythin' from the beginnin'. But don' worry! With a mum an' dad like yours, I'm sure ye'll learn t' fly righ' quickly!"

Fiona and I exchange a skeptical look. I haven't forgotten that, despite not being very much into sports, _she_ didn't make an idiot of herself.

"I'll tell ye what," says Hagrid. "Why don' ye ask yer mum fer some pointers on flyin'? She's not the Senior Quidditch correspondent at the _Daily Prophet_ fer nothin'! I'm sure she'd have plenty o' good advice fer ye."

"Mmmm, OK." Over the next half hour, Fiona tells Hagrid about how our classes are going and about her new friend Hyacinth. Hyacinth's pretty cool. She seems to be a bit too sensible to be popular, but I like her dry and witty humor. I'm not surprised that she and Fiona get along.

While Hagrid and Fiona are talking, my mind goes back to what Hagrid had said earlier about my flying. I really hope that I'll get better with practice. Imagine what everyone will think if I turn out to be as bad at Quidditch as I am at Astronomy.

I feel a soft pawing at my leg. Looking down, I see Lyre looking at me pitifully, obviously begging for a snack. Unable, and not trying, to resist the cuteness, I give him a slice of sausage which he munches on happily.

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A.N.: Urgh, I know this took ages to update. As both me and my beta are quite busy with school right now, updating regularly will be a bit difficult, but I'll try my best. For all you people who can write a cockney accent have a skill that I do not, so just use your imagination with Ivy. Anyone who R&Rs gets to cuddle Lyre! 


	3. Quince

A/N: In this chapter, I start venturing into other POV, but it'll remain mostly about Erik, for now. After doing some math, I've also realized that this fic actually began 18 years after DH. Also, for some reason all froms of seperating scenes don't work, so I've underlined the first few words of each scene. As always, please, please, review! Constructive criticism is welcome; flames are not. If you have any idea as to how to fix the aforementioned problem, I'll be very grateful for your help.

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Quince 

The grandfather clock in the corner dolefully chimed 11:30 on a Thursday night as Beatrice Potter bounded down the girls' dormitory stairs with her best friend Rani beside her. "Who've we got left?" Bea asked, taking the list of names from her.

She had already invited Rani (obviously), her cousin Ivy and her friends, her cousins Mark and Genevieve, and her friend Alen. That morning, Bea had gotten Mark, Genevieve, and Alen when she'd made her invitation round at the Ravenclaw table. Now it was time to see who else was still up in the Gryffindor common room.

Scanning the sea of tables and chairs, Bea was somewhat surprised to see that Erik and Fiona were still awake. "Hello, little brother of mine," said Bea, joining them at their spot by a window. She leaned back in her chair and swung her legs, which were clad in semi-new South Pole jeans, onto the table. "Why're you up so late?"

"We've got Astronomy in half and hour," Fiona told her.

"Ah." Noticing a notebook labeled 'Astronomy' lying on the table, Bea picked it up. Believe it or not, Hogwarts trends _do_ change sometimes, and in the past years it had become more common for students to use Muggle-style notebooks for taking notes. Thank Merlin for that, because no matter how cool parchment looked, it was extremely disorganized.

Idly examining the notebook, Bea saw 'Erik Potter' written just below the subject title. She opened it and flipped through it.

"What the- Is this what you do in Astronomy?" wondered Bea. At the top of the first page was written _'The Life and Adventures of Sudsy the Slug'_, and the following four pages detailed what looked like a story about a slug.

"What? If it wasn't for that, I'd be bored of my mind in class."

Bea shrugged. "That's not why I came here. Next Friday, _I'm_ having a quinceanera, and _you _two are invited. It's at nine in the Room of Requirement."

This did not quite have the desired affect. "Er, what's a quinceanera?"

"It's a fifteenth birthday party of that girls in Latin America have. Ayala told me about them last year. I haven't got all the traditional stuff for mine, but whatever. Work with what you've got, right?" Indeed, Bea had been determined to throw a quince of her own ever since. So what if she was British? It's the thought that counts.

"Where's the Room of Requirement?" asked Fiona.

As Bea explained the location of the RoR and how it worked, she noticed another first year staring at her in what seemed like awe. When she finished talking, the little boy found his voice.

"Y-you're Beatrice Potter," he stuttered. "My brother-"

"No shit, Sherlock," Bea said sarcastically; annoying little bugger… "Anyway, you two coming?"

"Yep."

Erik leaned forward and whispered to her conspiratorially, "you'll have to excuse Julian; he's a bit of an idiot."

Dom, Fiona, Hyacinth, and I make our way down to the Great Hall (yes, we've finally learned the way) for the Halloween feast. When we enter, I see hundreds of carved, floating pumpkins with candles illuminating the hall. Real bats fly around, sometimes coming within inches of the students. I think they're a cool touch. Kind of squeaky, though. The tables are packed and it looks like the food has just appeared.

We sit down about half way along the Gryffindor table and start helping ourselves to the food. One of the things I love about feasts is the bigger variety of delicious syuff to try. About fifteen minutes after we sit down, Ivy and her flock friends come to join us. They're all wrapped in their cloaks and carrying various packages.

"Hullo, ickle firsties!" Ivy says with her usual bravado. I stare; mainly at her hair.

"Sweet! Show me the back," Fiona cries. Ivy turns her head to show off her new haircut. Her hair's way shorter now, barely reaching her earlobes.

"Grandmum's going to flip," I tell her. I can already hear her… _This is just going too far Ivy, dear. Pretty soon people will be mistaking you for a boy! _She's very old fashioned that way, you know. It won't be just the short hair alone though, in Ivy's case. It's how it goes with the rest of her vigorous tomboyishness.

Ivy shrugs and grins. "She'll get over it."

"What else did you do in Hogsmead?"

"We went around the shops n' to the Three Broomsticks. I got Bea a birthday present. Oh, n' here's the stuff you asked me to pick up." Ivy hands us both a small package each. Knowing that Ivy would be going on her first visit to the village today, Fiona and I had asked her to pick up our gifts for Bea.

"Thanks."

Ivy introduces us to her friends, who are the Gryffindor boys in her year. They're called Jaimy, Leo, Ian and Derrin. They seem to be a decent sort, even though Ian keeps teasing us first years.

Beatrice walked around the Room of Requirement, checking that everything was in order. The RoR was currently quite large with big windows on the wall opposite from the door, a high-quality magical sound system, a table laden with all sorts of foreign snacks and drinks, plush chairs and sofas, and a big open space in the middle of the room perfect for dancing. The entire ensemble was lit with burning torches that cast a flickering, fiery light over everything. It was ten till nine, and the invitees would start arriving at any minute.

Just as Bea thought this, Rani, Alen, and Rorie (another Gryffindor in her year) walked through the door.

"Nice," said Alen, looking around the room.

"Gorgeous," agreed Rorie, though he was looking at Bea as he said this. Nobody could blame him for this, as Bea was currently looking her best in a black ruffled miniskirt, a white tank top trimmed with gold lace, and black 3 inch heels. She also wore gold hoop earrings, a long, non-bulky gold chain, and just enough make-up for it to be visible in the lower light.

With the arrival of the first guests, Bea turned on the music, which largely consisted of rap and hip-hop. The rest of the sixteen people invited arrived over the next twenty minutes. Erik and Fiona came accompanied by Patrick, who felt that it was his duty as a Perfect and their cousin/brother to make sure that they did not get caught out of bounds by Filch. This was pretty ironic, as he was helping them to not get caught breaking rules rather than preventing them from doing so.

Seeing as everyone was there, Bea turned down the music and climbed up on the table. "OK, listen up everyone!" she called out. "As it goes with quinceaneras, I and a few others will start the party off with a bit of a dance performance. So here it is!"

Beatrice hopped down from the table and took her place in the middle of the dance floor along with Rani, Patrick, and Mark. Everyone else was gathered around the edge of the floor to watch. The boys weren't as good of dancers as her and Rani, but they were probably the best of those invited. As arranged, another girl turned on the music.

It was a reggae-ish song with plenty of good rhythms and a distinctly Caribbean quality. The four began their routine. There were points where the girls would do their thing, and guys would do theirs. Then they danced in pairs: Bea and Patrick, and Rahnni and Mark. Whatever any of them lacked in technical skill, they made up for in plenty of energy. Bea loved performing up in front of everyone as they eagerly watched. She got a certain enjoyment out of just dancing and impressing others. Bea had a certain knack for it.

I sit on a sofa, sipping a soda. The party's been going on for nearly three hours now. I think everybody, including me, is getting a bit hyper. It's probably a combination of the cake and caffeine. Ivy, a couple of her friends, and some other girl have given up on dancing and are now sliding around on the dance floor, which is conveniently made of hardwood. I like wooden floors. They're fun; and they're shiny. Shiny stuff is awesome.

Oh come on, that was pathetic…

Leo barely slid four feet before stopping. "_Here's_ how you slide," I declare, making my way towards them and kicking off my shoes. I take a running start and practically soar across the floor. Wow, it really is slippery. _Uh-oh. _Not good.

My feet keep on sliding, but the rest of me can't keep up. Next thing I know I sprawl on my side with a loud smack like a large fish being dropped. I can hear them all laughing their heads off behind me. Better save face…

I hop up and take a deep, sweeping bow. "Thank you for your compliments, ladies and gents. I assure you that it took me much practice to get that down right."

They laughed even harder. "Damn, kid, where'd you learn to talk like that?"

"I read," I tell him (is it Ian?) as archly I can; which right now's a bit difficult, as I'm trying not to burst out laughing randomly, too. Next, we try sliding races and slide-dancing. It's fun, but it hurts to fall every two minutes. Whatever. While we're messing around, I notice that Bea's off snogging some blondish bloke. Urgh, TMI. I think he's in her year.

A little while later, after I get bored of repeatedly falling on my bum, my back, my legs, my head, and other parts of my body which I've lost count of, Bea comes over.

"Was'up?"

"I didn't know you had a boyfriend," I say conversationally.

"Neither did I."

I nod casually. "Who's he?"

"Rorie. I think he's fancied me all year; so I decided that I may as well. I mean, Rorie's interesting, and looks well enough. "

Aghhh! It's cold! Me and Dom have just stepped out of the front doors on our way to Herbology. The wind's blowing so hard I suspect it of having some personal issue with me, and the sparse snow flakes feel more like tiny chips of ice. And I though late November in England was bad…

We run in an almost straight line to greenhouse one, which Professor Longbottom should have nice, warm, and just a tad too muggy. But wait, this can't be right. There's not a single person in there. They can't all be late, can they? I notice a note taped to the locked door: Attention students, due to weather conditions, the plants have gone into hibernation and today's Herbology lesson has been canceled.

"Damn it!" Dom exclaims vehemently. "We came out here for nothing!"

Fifteen minutes later we enter the quiet and thankfully warm library, which is mostly occupied by first, sixth, and seventh years. Looking around, I spot Fiona sitting at one of the tables writing something. I don't think she's set foot outside today.

"Hi," I say, dropping my bag onto a chair and peeling off my hat, scarf, and cloak. Dom sits down in the chair to my right. I can tell that Fiona's about to tell me that I should've checked the notice board. "Please don't even start."

"OK."

"What're you working on?"

"Essay for Potions, I'm almost done."

I know that it would be a good idea to get my own one finished, but it sounds a bit too much like work, and right now my attention span's as nonexistent as a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. I dig through my bag in search of something to do. Oh look, a Cheery Owls bar has been lurking in a side pocket.

I give Fiona's leg a light prod, which makes her glance up. I quickly hold up the bar and duck my hand down under the table. We both grin. As quietly as possible (Madam Pince has some sort of super-hearing) I open the plastic wrapper and break the crunchy, chewy, marshmallowy snack in half. Fiona slips a hand under the table and I give her one of the halves.

As we sneakily munch on our snack, Dom pulls out a letter from his parents. "What'll you do over break?" he asks after reading the letter.

"Go home. I can't wait. It sucks that there's still three more weeks of school."

"Holidays are always fun," Fiona tells him. "It's crazy when all of us are there. On Christmas everyone goes over to the Burrow, grandmum and grandad's place. It's even crazier there, with about thirty people in one house."

"Lucky," mutters Dom. "My mum and dad are _boring_. My whole family's made up of about nine people, and the only relative I've got that's under thirty is my bratty little cousin. But, naturally, they want me to spend the holidays with them."

I wince in sympathy. I can hardly imagine having a small, boring family. It must seriously suck.


	4. A Magic Far Beyond All

**A Magic Far Beyond All**

* * *

"OK, get in," says Mum, leading the way to our midnight blue car as Dad loads mine and Bea's trunks into the boot, after plenty of hug-filled hellos.

"Aw, no Side-Along Apparating?" whines Bea, disappointed.

"'Fraid not, as there's two of you this time," Dad tells her. We all get in and drive out of the parking lot and onto the road.

The past three weeks passed quickly enough, and now the holiday break has finally started. As we drive along, I stare out of the window at the passing snow covered houses. We live just outside of Oxford, so it's a good thing that Granddad added a few extra features to the car to get us there faster.

We pull into the driveway only 45 minutes later. I like Hogwarts, but it's good to be home. Our house is a big, yellow brick cottage with a bay window in the sitting room and a front yard heaped with fluffy snow. On the right side of the house, out of sight, is a little balcony. Bea and I dash inside as Mum and Dad follow, levitating our trunks.

The first thing I see when I come in is, of course, the stairs. To my right in the sitting room our sister Eliza sits on the floor, playing with Felix.

"Hey!" Bea and I shout, running up to Eliza to smother her with huge hugs.

"You're here!" she squeals, bouncing up and down. Her bright red hair's braided into two pigtails and her emerald green eyes are a bit narrowed because of her massive grin. Distance really does make the heart grow fonder, as those old witches always say. A year ago, unlike now, me and Eliza got on wonderfully; aside from the mini-rows we had several times a week. (But we were still better than Patrick and Ivy, who used to attempt homicide nearly every day.) I can't remember ever being this glad to see Eliza. She's only just turned ten and won't start Hogwarts for another two years yet.

"I swear you've gotten bigger," I say to Felix, heaving him up. Felix is a dark ginger cat who's both very big and very hyper. Not a good mix. He mews and paws at my face, eager for play time to continue. It does, with the lot of us wrestling around (which isn't easy, considering his size) and playing with him until dinner.

"Bea, Erik, come set the table," Mum calls from the kitchen. Bea takes the cups while I grab a stack of plates. Sitting on the counter is the bowl of salad. _I may as well get it all done_, I think and stack the rather heavy salad on top of the plates.

"Erik, would it kill you to do something the normal way," Mum sighs, sounding a tad exasperated. As I need both hands to put the salad on the table, I lift up one leg in a storkish way to hold the plates while my hands are busy.

"I won't drop them," I tell her, and don't. My balancing skills are still as good as always.

"What's been up with you?" Eliza asks eagerly as soon as we sit down. I tell her about my classmates and the sorting, but I don't say how it's done. (It's practically tradition to leave future first years guessing)

"I have no idea what house I'm going to be in," Eliza says.

"You'll probably be in Gryffindor like the rest of us," Bea tells her.

"You never know, I might end up in Slytherin," Eliza responds in a sing-song voice. She just likes to contradict people.

"Before I forget to tell you," says Dad, "Teddy's going to come over tomorrow. Your Mum and I still have to work one more day, and we don't quite trust you not to blow up the house."

"I can take care of myself," Bea contradicts immediately.

"But I'm not so sure about those two," he answers, pointing at me and Eliza with his fork. I am a little insulted. "Beside, it's just Teddy, not some full-blown babysitter."

After dinner, we finish decorating the house. Mum, Dad, and Eliza already put up the Christmas tree, but left the rest until Bea and I got home. The girls take handfuls of holly and pocketfuls of candles; Eliza has little springs while Bea has a whole woven string to put on the mantelpiece.

"Here you go," says Mum, handing me a bowl of small, glowing baubles and a bunch of glittery gold tinsel.

_Oooo, shiny_, I think as I stare at the tinsel. But like any self-respecting bloke, I'm careful not to say this out loud. As Bea and Eliza hang their holly above the fireplace, on the stairs' banisters, and on the coffee table, I trim it with the tiny baubles and tinsel. We then run around the house putting candles in every window while Mum and Dad light them with their wands. This looks especially festive from the outdoors.

-

It's around eleven P.M. when I finally drag my feet upstairs to my room. As I reach the first floor, it's the second door on my left. At the end of the hall is the little balcony. I walk into my room and fall back onto my slightly bouncy bed with its fuzzy midnight blue covers and yellow sheets. I should probably change into my pajamas. It's a good thing that Dad brought my trunk up.

After changing and blowing out the candle on my windowsill, I climb back in bed and take a deep breath. I love how my sheets smell. The smell's hard to describe in a way other than 'good'. Maybe like… water? Or laundry soap? Whatever it is, it's a bit like my bed at Hogwarts, but not quite the same.

I hear the family owl, Sagarmatha (Saga for short), hoot somewhere outside. She's probably out hunting now. It was Mum who'd named her, by the way.

-

I wake up to bright winter morning sunlight streaming through my window. I hop out of bed and canter downstairs. Mum and Dad are already in the kitchen, drinking tea and getting ready for their last day at work before vacation. Dad's the head Auror at the ministry and Mum works for the _Prophet_.

"Good morning," I say cheerily and grab a slice of toast from the plate in the middle of the table.

"Morning."

"Bet you're glad to be done with work soon."

"I'm in such a good mood that I might even be nice to the junior Aurors," Dad grins. From what I've heard, Dad's much stricter with the Aurors than he is with the girls and me.

A couple of hours later, as Mum and Dad are about to leave for work, there's a knock on the door. Mum welcomes in Teddy, giving him a quick welcoming embrace.

"Hey, you lot," he says brightly after hanging up his cloak. Teddy is our eighteen-year-old godbrother. He's slim and of medium height, with lively light brown eyes and chin length aqua blue hair. As Teddy's a Metamorphmagus, you can never be too sure as to what he's going to look like each time you see him; but he does have a thing for hair of various shades of blue or green.

After Mum and Dad leave, we all bundle up and go outside. The back yard's fairly big, with a swing bench, a few trees, a little wooden shed, and a headstone in the corner that's almost completely covered with snow. It's for Kreature, our old house elf. I can't remember him, as he died about a year before I was born, but Mum and Dad told me a bit about him.

As I'm standing there, momentarily staring off into space, a slightly smaller weight crashes into me, knocking us both into the snow. Eliza hops up, cackling madly. I quickly charge at her, but end up crashing into Bea as Eliza darts aside. Naturally, she retaliates by shoving not me, but Teddy.

An hour and a half later, the lot of us troop inside through the back door, covered from head to frozen toe in melting snow. _Urgghhhh._ There's cold slush in nearly every piece of clothes that I'm wearing; and a bit in my left ear. I pull off my coat, boots, and gloves and dump them in the corner; then run upstairs to change into something dry.

Teddy's busy making hot chocolate by the time I return to the kitchen. Remind me to thank Mum and Dad for having him to come over; the bloke's brilliant. I look in the mugs. The first three have a few mini marshmallows each according to everyone's preference, with only a couple in the first (evidently mine) and about six in the third (Bea's). The fourth mug holds a miniature marshmallow mountain. Yeah, Teddy loves them.

Taking our hot chocolate, we all plant ourselves in front of the living room fire. Bea, Eliza, and I cuddle up on the wondrously plush couch while Teddy plants himself in an armchair. I don't mind cuddling at all, though I wouldn't admit it to anyone at school, especially the other boys. They'd never let me hear the end of it.

-

I grab a sheaf of music from the stack on the table, bouncing in excitement. It's Christmas Eve and we're going caroling! When I say 'we', I mean Mum, Dad, Bea, Eliza, Teddy, Luna, and I. I love caroling, or any kind of singing for that matter. We've been going every year for a long time now.

"OK, everyone ready?" Mum calls out, looking around at us all assembled in the living room. We make sounds of agreement. "As it'll be easier, we'll all be Apparating into town. Erik, go with your dad; Eliza, go with Luna; Bea, you come with me."

I take Dad's arm with my left and hold on to the songbook with my right. My insides are getting tangled up in excitement. I've never Side-Along Apparated before.

"Ready?" asks Dad. I nod. He turns on the spot and I can feel his arm pulling away from me. Eek! I hold on tighter, afraid of getting left behind or splinched. Suddenly, I'm surrounded by a crushing darkness that squeezes me from all possible sides. It's like being forced through an really narrow coffee straw.

In a second it's over and I'm gasping cold air in a back alley that's empty except for Mum, Bea, Luna, and Eliza. Another split second later, Teddy appears with a loud crack. I stop gasping, force my mouth shut, and continue breathing through my nose. The air's seriously cold, and I don't want to catch one. A cold, that is.

"Let's go, everyone," says Dad. He leads the way onto the semi-quiet, darkening street. While there are only a few people outside, the windows in every house are lit with cheerful noise pouring out of them. The streetlamps are also lit and decorated with small bunches of greenery and velvety red ribbons.

We head toward a welcoming looking Muggle house a little way down the street. "What song shall we sing?" Luna inquires airily.

"_God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen_," I suggest immediately. That, and its wizarding counterpart, is definitely my favorite Christmas carol. They find it in their songbooks; I flip to it too, even though I learned all of the words ages ago.

We assemble into two haphazard lines: My sisters and I in the front and everyone else in the back. Bea reaches forward and rings the Thoreaus' doorbell. Over the years, we've learned who's who around here, and which homes welcome carolers at Christmas.

A smiling, middle-aged woman opens the door. "There's carolers at the door!" she hollers back into the house upon seeing us. A flock of about eight more people of various ages run up. Behind me, Mum taps her heal three times and on cue we all begin to sing.

I do my very best. Since I know the song so well, I can concentrate on getting the most out of every note. I barely notice that the rest are pretty much following my lead. Soon we finish, and our spectators clap delightedly.

"Wonderful, absolutely wonderful," the woman beams. She then adds, "especially the little boy. I swear I've never heard any child sing so well."

I beam proudly, letting the 'little boy' comment slide in light of the praise. One of the kids runs off and comes back quickly carrying miniature plum pies for all of us. We thank them for the pies, wish them a merry Christmas, and take our leave. On our way to the next house, we munch on our plum pies. _Mmmmm, warm plums._ But it's a good thing that they're not too big, as plums _are_ laxatives, and I don't really want to be running off to the bathroom right now. Diarrhea would _definitely_ ruin the moment.

We go around singing at all of the homes of everyone we know in any way. At the wizarding houses we sing carols from the wizarding world, while at Muggle houses we sing Muggle ones. It really is useful knowing them all. The songs, I mean. Some people give us food, others money (from both worlds) for donation.

By nine o'clock we Apparate home, hoarse-voiced, half-frozen, and beaming. It's been a successful evening of caroling.

"Why don't you two stay to warm up?" Dad offers to Teddy and Luna. He points his wand at the kettle, immediately bringing it to a boil for tea. Everybody unwinds their many cabbage-like layers of protection from the cold and sit down around the kitchen table with steaming cups of tea. I sigh contentedly into mine, taking a sip. I love tea. I love singing. I love pastries. I love holidays. At the moment, I love pretty much everything.

-

The next morning, as I slowly wake up, the first thing that I notice is a weight at the foot of my bed. I wiggle my feet experimentally. Then, as soon as my mind's fully working, it hits me like a falling tree. IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!

I bolt upright and see a pile of presents at the foot of my bed. I let out a joyous squawk and debate with myself for a moment: to run around waking everybody up first, or to open presents. The presents shove their way to the front of the To Do list.

I pick up a heavy, box-shaped one. It's from Mum and Dad. Ripping off the wrapping, I see that it is a lovely, baby hippogriff sized book. Perfect for light reading. Don't worry, it's not an intellectual book; it's a sort of adventure/comedy/just about everything else type of novel.

Setting it aside, I grab the next gift. It's from my older cousin Mark. Since there are so many of us Weasleys and Potters, everyone under 16 draws the name of the person for whom they get a gift that year. This year I drew Alison, George and Verity's four-year-old.

Opening the aforementioned present, I see that it's a… box of chocolates. A large and fancy looking box of chocolates. With a French name. Sweet. Literally. I hope. I pick out a fancy little piece and bite in. I almost melt into a chocolate-loving puddle of delight. These have got to be the Best. Chocolates. EVER. I put the box aside with much difficulty.

After I finish opening the rest of my presents, my eyes are magnetically drawn to the French chocolates. OK, one more won't kill…

Ahem, anyway. Done with the highly important task of gift opening, I run out of my room to see who else is up. Hmmm, I can hear the sounds of ripping wrapping paper coming from Eliza's room. "Merry Christmas!" I holler, running into her room, which is across the hall and to the right of mine. She yells the same and gives me a spine-crunching hug, which is really saying something, as she's even smaller than me. Well, a _bit_ smaller.

A few hours later, all five of us are assembled in the living room, about to Floo to the Burrow for Christmas dinner. Bea goes first, disappearing in a rush of green flame. It's my turn next. I take a pinch of Floo powder, throw it in the fire, and clearly say, "The Burrow!" Traveling by Floo powder can be a bit messy, and you may get dizzy, but it's really not so bad once you get the hang of it.

In seconds, I drop into the fireplace of the Burrow. Knowing that Eliza's right behind me, I step out of the way. From what I can tell, there are already about a dozen people in the cozy, rickety, old house. After saying hi to everyone (as a group) in the living room, I follow my nose to the kitchen. It's already occupied by Grandmum, Aunt Fleur, Aunt Verity, and Genevieve (who's also known as Vivie and looks rather bored). Blond overload. There are amazing smells coming from the stove, where there's something cooking on every burner. There are also covered dishes of what the various families brought so far to add to this feast of a dinner/lunch.

"Erik!" Grandmum says happily upon seeing me come in. She gives me a bone-crushing hug that turns me into something resembling an unusually limp jellyfish. I think Eliza might have inherited her hugging skills from her.

"Hey Grandmum," I croak.

"Look at that, you've grown already."

"Uh, sure." Knowing me, it probably wasn't by very much. Grandmum's most likely emphasizing it to make me feel better. "Can I have a tangerine? Please?"

"Of course, dear," says Grandmum, turning back to the stove. I take a tangerine from a bowl on the counter and start peeling it. Being small and skinny has its advantages around Grandmum.

As I'm about to put the first slice in my mouth, it suddenly disappears from my hand. A light arm is casually slung over my shoulders. Looking to my right at the not-so-mysterious owner of the arm, I see Fiona grinning me while chewing on my tangerine slice. "You're here," I state the obvious.

"I am. And so are you."

Behind Fiona, Aunt Hermione and Ivy enter the kitchen to say hi and deposit the peanut brittle. "Ivy, what on _earth_ have you done to your hair?" Grandmum chides as soon as she's done with greeting them. "It was really so lovely when it was long. With your hair so short and the way you dress, I wouldn't be surprised if people started mistaking you for a boy!"

Fiona and I exchange a gleeful look; predicted it almost down to the last word.

-

After Christmas dinner, which is as amazing as usual, everyone just hangs out and takes advantage of everybody being in the same place for once. Because there's about thirty of us, those sixteen and over ate in the living room, while the rest of us ate in the kitchen. I sat between Fiona and Jack (her almost-nine-year-old brother), who along with Fred kept trying to slip all sorts of nasty things into my drink, as usual. Fred's George and Verity's oldest kid, by the way, and around Jack's age.

Anyway, as I was saying, after dinner I somehow get into a conversation about Quidditch with Uncle Bill, Uncle George, and Ivy. "…there's gonna be two new positions open next year: for Chaser and Keeper. I really hope that we'll finally get some more descent players, cause the team sucks now," Ivy tells them. She loves Quidditch. I think she wants to be captain sometime soon.

"I'm sure you'll get at lest one more descent player. You'll be joining next year, right Erik?" says Bill.

"Of course I am," I reassure him immediately.

"You'll have no problem getting on the team, you're bound to have the talent," George tells me jovially. I pointedly avoid telling them about my first flying lesson. It'll just disappoint them.

-

I spend the week after Christmas thoroughly chilling out, during which time I get through about 250 pages of my new book. I love books that are about almost everything, and mine's seriously addicting. A couple of days before New Year's we go ice-skating at a rink in Oxford. We've never gone ice-skating before, and I've discovered that it hurts to learn. I fell five times before finally getting the hang of it! But at least I did get the hang of it, unlike Bea. Who'd have thought that a dancer could be so hopeless on the ice? There was this one time when she completely sprawled on the ice and couldn't even get up, and then this bloke… Er, yeah, back to the point.

On New Year's Eve, there was a party at Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione's (Fiona's parents) house. In a nutshell, we all got really hyper, chased people with licorice wands, played charades, danced, sang along to the wireless, and had a particularly messy encounter with sparkling cider and vodka.

Much sooner than I'd like, 5 January comes around and Bea and I have to pack up, go back to King's Cross, get on the Hogwarts Express, and take off for the second term of the school year. Hanging halfway out of a train window, Bea, Patrick, Ivy, Fiona, and I wave goodbye to all of our parents and little Eliza and Jack, who are lucky and unlucky enough to not have to go to school yet.

* * *

A/N: Aha! I've found a solution to my secene break issuses. As always, reviews are highly appreciated. If you've got anything to say, I'd love to hear it. 


	5. The Rollercoaster of Pride

A/N: Aha! My first ever 'chapter 5' posted in any fic! This was initially two chapters, but I'd decided that they'll work better as one big chappie. Anyway, as always all reviews are immensely appreciated, so pretty please….

**

* * *

**

The Rollercoaster of Pride

* * *

"Well?" I ask.

"Well what?" says Dom. It's the post-lunch break on our first day back to class and because of the cold, about forty people are now crammed into one of the unused classrooms on the first floor. Dom, Jason, Lynetta, Amelie (another girl in my year), and I have found a corner to ourselves that's pretty safe from any inconveniently flying objects.

"How was your holiday, is what."

"Oh, it was OK, you?"

I get the feeling that going on about how great it was would be rude, so I settle on, "pretty good. I tried some vodka on New Year's Eve."

"Sweet, really?!" exclaims Jason, impressed. Everyone's attention is suddenly on me and I can't help but draw myself up with pride.

"Yeah, really."

"Ooo, how was it?" wonders a wide-eyed Lynetta.

"Vodka's got to be the strongest stuff ever," I find myself bragging. "See, this is what happened: it was just after midnight and I was real thirsty from all the sweets and stuff. Now on the table beside me was a tumbler full of this clear liquid that looked exactly like water. So, thinking that it was water, I took a huge swing of it. But it was _really_ bitter, and after taking a gulp of the stuff, it felt like my whole mouth and throat were on fire. I was like, 'Bloody hell! What is this stuff?' and then my dad was like, 'that was my vodka! Did you seriously drink it all at once?!' That's cause nobody ever drinks vodka in such big shots. It's surprising that I wasn't totally sick afterwards."

"I wish I could've tried some…" Amelie sighs wistfully.

"Nah, you wouldn't've liked it," I tell her. As they're looking at me, all impressed, for the first time in memory I'm glad that Fiona's not around. As she was there when it happened, she could easily tell them the parts that I'd left out; like the gasping, the gagging, and the watering eyes. Er, _heavily_ watering eyes, which some people might mistake for crying.

-

Several days later I wake up as early as usual, with the sun not even having made it over the mountains yet. I could of course get up, get ready, and go down to the common room till it's time for breakfast. But the dormitory's chilly during the winter despite the heating, and my bed is nice and cozy, and I really don't feel like getting up just yet. So instead I grab my book from my nightstand and continue reading it. I know that almost no one would ever spend their time sitting in bed reading, but they're all too busy sleeping to notice, right?

"What on earth are you doing, Potter?" The bemused voice surprises me so much that I do a weird sort of hop as I'm jerked out of my fantasy world. I must've been so absorbed in my book that I didn't even notice the passing time or that Jason woke up.

"Oh, um, er…" I stutter, not yet having remembered how to form coherent words.

"You're reading- what is that, a dictionary? -in bed?" Jason asks incredulously. The look on his face screams 'NERD ALERT!'

"Shove off, it's not a dictionary," I say defensively.

"Right…"

Glowering, I squeeze my book into a nightstand drawer (it really is the size of a baby hippogriff) and start getting dressed as well.

After breakfast, our first class is Charms with Professor Schneckenburger. He's a stout wizard with graying hair whom it's very hard to take seriously. The best part, however, is that Schneckenburger's completely oblivious as to how ridiculous he is. Today we're doing the Heating Charm, which makes hot air blow out of your wand. It's really not that hard and it only takes me a few tries to get it right.

"Hey Erik…" Fiona drawls lazily as she steadily heats the frozen waffle in front of her.

"Mmmm?"

"Want to play that story making game where we each say three words?"

"OK, you can start."

"One day, the"-

"-Schneckenburger was frozen"-

"-from having been"-

"-ice-fishing in the"-

"-school lake for"-

"-the Giant Squid." By now Dom and Hyacinth's attention has strayed from their waffles to our game.

"So, after his"-

"-unsuccessful attempt at"-

"-ice-fishing, Schneckenburger waddled"-

"-into the castle"-

"-wearing a really,"-

"-really, really, really"-

"-poofy pink coat." All four of us burst into laughter, imagining a frozen Professor Schneckenburger dressed in a poofy pink coat.

"Niiice," says Dom appreciatively.

"With a fuzzy hood," I put in. "Woops, four words."

"That's alright," Fiona remarks off-handedly. "Anyway, as Schneckenburger clatters"-

"-up the marble"-

"-staircase (which is"-

"-rather difficult to"-

"-do, him being"-

"-frozen and all)" We go on like this for a few more minutes, setting Burger (as he's sometimes called) on fire and having one of the school house-elves throw him in the food-disposal. Playing these sort of games with Fiona is especially fun, as we can keep the story flowing seamlessly, like one person talking out of two mouths. Wow, that makes a freaky mental image.

"When's the lesson over?" Dom wonders. He absentmindedly flicks his wand around, blowing a jet of hot air right in his face. "I just blew myself," he says with a peeved look on his face.

I almost choke on my own tongue. "_You blew yourself?!_" I hoot. After a moment's thought, Dom and Fiona both catch on to my meaning and crack up as Hyacinth sits there looking confused.

"You don't have any big brothers or sisters, do you?" Fiona asks sympathetically. Ivy's always been keen on passing on her "knowledge" to others, which is how we tend to know a bit more about such things (and have a pretty wide swear-word vocabulary) than other first years.

-

"Oye! Lookie, lookie!" Professor Ayala calls out loudly to the class, waving her arm to get us all to quiet down. For the past few weeks, we've been studying wand lore, which is way more interesting than anything that we're doing in any of the other classes. "This week you'll be working in groups of four to make posters on the basics of wand lore. In your posters, you have to include when and why wands were first used, the descriptions of your own wands along with at least three of the characteristics associated with their woods and cores, and two more pieces of general info of your choice."

In that adorable accent she's got, Ayala lists the groups of who's going to be working together. I'm with Jason, Amelie, and Scorpius Malfoy. That last one's a blond and peaky sort of bloke who I've never really bothered to talk to before. I just know that his dad knew my dad when they were in school together. Mmm, whatever.

Pushing four desks together, we spread out the oversized sheet of parchment that's to be our poster. I look around, waiting for someone to say something. It's pretty useless, as they're all doing the same thing. "Ummm," Amelie trails off.

I take a deep sigh, seeing that it's up to me to get anything done. "OK, I think we should first make a list of what we already know."

"We use wands to concentrate our magic into one spell?" Jason suggests.

"Right," I say, grasping at some thread. Malfoy, thankfully, takes out a notebook and starts writing this down. "What else?"

"Um," says Amelie, shuffling through her class notes. "Wizards first started to use wands in- what's that say?- the 4th century B.C?" Merlin's toes, the girl can't even read her own handwriting!

"OK, good, we should now all probably write down our wand qualifications. Mine's made of rowan wood and a unicorn tail hair." It's also 10 inches long, but that's not necessary info.

"Rowan's pliable and represents wisdom and poetic inspiration," I quote what Ayala said in an earlier class almost exactly after everyone is done giving their own wand descriptions.

Silence.

"Er, anyone else?"

-

"Urgh!" I groan, putting all of my frustration into it as I flop down on the couch, stretching my legs out beside Fiona. The classes have ended for the day and we're in the common room.

"What happened?" she asks, glancing up from her book.

"I _hate_ working in groups.! I hate, _hate_, hate it! Especially if it's with a bunch of lazy idiots! I'm stuck doing all of the work while they just sit there looking stupid! Like today for example; I was like, 'Amelie, how do you want to write this out?' And she was like, 'uh, I don't know, however.' So I had to plan _everything_ out, and tell them all _exactly_ what to do, in which order, which color, how to word it. I mean seriously! Can't she even figure out by herself what color ink to use?! And Jason wouldn't quit messing around. Oh, I'm all for having fun and all, _but not when we still have to make almost our whole poster and its due by the end of class!_ Malfoy was the least of a disaster, as I don't think I can even call _him_ helpful. He could at least follow simple directions without me having to explain it all."

I take a gulp of air, as I'm running out of breath. Fiona cringes sympathetically. She was way luckier with her group, which included Hyacinth, who's quite smart and definitely not a slacker.

"I wouldn't be surprised if we all got a D on our poster. And it counts as much as two essays, too…" I moan.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. Professor Ayala definitely _did_ notice that you were stuck doing most of the work, so even if the rest of the group get a bad grade, I'm sure that she'll give you a higher one," reassures Fiona. What she's saying makes sense, as Ayala's know for being cool like that. I wearily lean my head to the side against the back of the couch, thoroughly glad just to have Fiona at least listen to me harp on about my problems. It's almost surprising how much being able to vent helps. For no particular reason, the urge to go visit Hagrid and his puppy, Lyre, crops up in the back of my mind. Lyre must be even bigger than Felix-the-elephant-cat by now.

"Let's go see Hagrid," Fiona suggests, reading my mind. "We haven't played with Lyre in _ages_."

We get up and stroll through the portrait hole, Fiona shoving her book into a cloak pocket.

-

The petulant (learned that word just the other day, by the way) February wind pounds on the windows of the History of Magic classroom as Ayala passes out our grades for the posters, which are now hanging around the classroom walls. I look over my slip of parchment once I get it. The things we're being graded on are all listed with a score of 1-4 next to each one. At the bottom of that list is 'participation', for which I got a 4. In the top corner, circled, is the letter E for 'exceeds expectations'. Yep, Ayala's undeniably awesome. Glancing to my left, I see that Amelie got an overall score of A (for 'acceptable'). Oh wow, I wonder why…

-

I peacefully stare out the window, not doing much of, well, anything. March plodded by like a troll made of wind and slush; all coldness (but not by Scottish standards) and sogginess. It's now April 2, and that means two things: first, Spring Break has started! Second, it's Fiona's twelfth birthday tomorrow! Before I forget to do so, I go upstairs to my dorm to wrap her present.

Digging the present out from the bottom of my trunk (where I'd put it for safe-keeping), I tuck it into a bigish, green and gold gift bag along with some slightly crinkled wrapping tissue. I'd found the present a couple of weeks ago in a catalog for a new store in Diagon Alley that sells all sorts of random stuff. Some (OK, most) people would think that it's a pretty strange gift, but I know that Fiona will love it. It's how she rolls. But, just in case, in the tag I add:_ P.S. you might want to open this in private_.

-

"Thanks!" Fiona squeals happily, grabbing my head and planting a kiss on both cheeks. It's the morning of her birthday and we're down in the common room, which is still almost empty. "I love him!"

"You're welcome," I grin, as Fiona sits on the floor, snuggling her brand new stuffed bunny. He's toasty colored, about a foot and a half tall, and super-cuddly. He'd looked nice and soft in the catalog, and definitely passed the hug test once delivered by post owl. The bunny's cuddliness is undoubtedly addictive, and I'd shut him in my trunk mostly to protect him from myself. And to protect my reputation, of course, as I can't let the other boys see me snuggling a stuffed animal, now can I?

"I'm going to name him Cinnabun," says Fiona proudly, holding her bunny at arm's length. After a moment's thought, she decides, "Let's go explore today. We never have the time when school's in. I'll just go put Cinnabun upstairs." She gives the bunny another delighted hug and runs upstairs.

We wander for an hour, not remotely lost. We know exactly where we are, it's just that the castle's confused. Right. "I swear we've been here before," declares Fiona, stopping at a familiar landing. The castle's confused again. We've been wandering around all over the place in what I think is the west wing on the fifth floor, but we've ended up in the same spot no matter what turns we'd tried taking.

"That's because you have," croaks a dry voice from the left. I jump and whip around; not having noticed anyone there. There isn't; except for that stone gargoyle crouching in a notch which looks like the unfortunate offspring of a _very_ confused toad and griffin.

"Did… you say that?" Fiona asks the gargoyle hesitantly. We've both seen talking mirrors before, but talking statues are a novelty.

"Of course I did, you daft bugger," huffs the gragoyle. "I suppose you want go some other way?"

"That wouldn't be a tragedy," I remark.

"See that crack," it says, pointing, "between the stairs and the wall? Go down through it and you'll reach the third floor."

"Thanks," Fiona calls back as we go to follow its directions. The gargoyle just stretches its wings, sending up a little cloud of dust, and settles back down, ready to startle the next unsuspecting passer-by.

We slide down a surprisingly short way for having just passed two floors. Oh well, logic is sometimes pointless. We keep wandering along until we come into a smallish square tower.

"Where are we?" I ask, looking up at the many wooden platforms connected by simple step-ladders.

"I think this is the clock tower," says Fiona. "Hear that ticking?" Yep, there's a deep, hushed cross between a ticking and dinging coming from up above. In wordless agreement we climb to the top.

When we reach the sixth platform, panting, we're level with a mechanism of over a dozen gears ranging in size from ones the size of my palm to one with a diameter as big as I am tall. From behind the wheels, a soft light creeps through the face of the clock as if it's curious about what inside but afraid of stepping into something nasty. The handle of the ginormous pendulum rocks back and forth nonchalantly. Above us is the old, heavy bell that rings every day to announce the time to switch classes. I've heard that in Muggle schools the bell is usually some type of annoying, electronic buzzing or ringing noise. I like this one much better, as the other ones sound very irritating.

"I wonder if we could climb back there…" she wonders, inspecting the random openings by the edge of the wheels. Hmmm, there's a little metal ledge-thingy on the wall in the middle that can be stepped on if you duck down under that big wheel there… She carefully picks her way through with me following close behind. After that, I squeeze behind another wheel, duck around the swinging pendulum, and step onto a wider, longer ledge that runs the length of the clock's face.

"Sweet," says Fiona, staring out. Even though the clock's completely white from the outside, it's partially transparent from the inside, letting in plenty of light. You can also see the arrows moving past at different speeds to point at the over-sized numbers. This would be a perfect place to get away to read or something. The common room and library are OK, but the first's always loud and the second's stuffy and it's hard to concentrate with that vulture of a librarian always swooping around, ready to catch and devour anyone who so much as breaths the wrong way. This clock is perfect, as probably nobody ever goes here to bother you, there's plenty of light, and it's got a calm sort of feeling to it, a quiet that's not an obnoxious silence.

-

I move with the red and gold sea towards the Quidditch pitch. It's the Quidditch House Cup! Miraculously, Gryffindor managed to make it into the finals. A bunch of us first years crowd into the front of the stands; Quin, Jason and I are holding up a banner that says CHEW THEM UP and has a moving, red lion drawn on it. Quin had drawn the lion, Jason colored, and I'd charmed it.

Despite all of this house spirit, I'm a bit nervous about how the game's going to go. The only reason we even got into the finals was because of lucky. Or, more accurately, the other team was really unlucky. Ravenclaw's seeker had been in the hospital wing from a Transfiguration accident during the last game, and they'd replaced him with some second year that looked like he'd never been on a broom before. No such luck this time. Hufflepuff's got their whole team, and this year they're _good_; not at all like the pathetic flock that Ivy had told me about them being in the past couple of years. There's also not a cloud in the sky, and everybody and his great-auntie's toad know that one of our beaters is some sort of mole-like photophobic that cowers at the very idea of sunlight.

So, as the Gryffindor team meanders onto the field, I cheer as loudly as possible, hoping that all this encouragement will inspire them to not get completely steamrolled. By the way half of them are quaking in fear; I've got a suspicion that we have a lot of hoping to do.

Madam Hooch blows her whistle and the fourteen players take off, soaring up to their various places.

"…and it's Weasley with the Quaffle," shouts the commentator. "Ooo, that's a nasty Bludger from the Hufflepuff Beater. She ducks! She drops the ball! Now Harris of Hufflepuff's got it! Nice shove from Tyrell Williams! The ball is back to Weasley, she's heading for the goal…. and SHE SCORES! Ten-zero to Gryffindor!"

We yell and clap, brandishing the banner. "Go Ivy!" yells Fiona from the row right behind me. Maybe Gryffindor's not doomed to loosing, after all…

Damn it. I shouldn't have thought that. The game continues with three more goals; all scored by Hufflepuff. It's that stupid Keeper's fault! She's falling for the most obvious feints!

…it's been another hour, and things are _not_ improving. The score's eighty-thirty to Hufflepuff and I'm getting really fed up with groaning in frustration. Ivy and Tyrell have scored a few goals, but that doesn't make up for our crappy Keeper, third Chaser, and Beaters. Simply put, we've got three good players. The other team's got seven.

"He scores!" the commentator calls out and another loud roar goes up from the mass of yellow and black on the other side of the stands. Jason and I exchange a weary look that clearly says: why even bother? Most of the Gryffindor supporters are now planted firmly on the benches. It's not like we'll be jumping up to cheer any time soon. Not with Ivy and Tyrell having their work cut out for them and our Seeker, Linda, not being able to fly ten feet without having to duck from one of the homicidal Budgers constantly aimed her way.

This is so despicably pathetic that I'm starting to seriously consider forcing myself to not care about Quidditch anymore. It'll spare me loads of disappointment. As I'm thinking these depressing yet almost optimistic thoughts, the other team scores a couple of more goals. I determinedly start picking at the edge of the banner, which is spread across our laps. I'm trying to tune out the commentator and the Hufflepuff crowd, who are all about as happy as starved pigs after being let into the school kitchens.

As I'm trying to ignore the noise, I vaguely realize that it seems to be disappearing. Huh? Looking up, I see Linda rising up into the air on her broom, holding up a fist in the air. Is this some sort of new form of admitting defeat? There's a golden glimmer in said fist. Hang on a minute….

"Linda Carlin has caught the Snitch," says the voice of the bemused commentator. "She's caught it. But, then this means… that Gryffindor has won the match!"

But Linda isn't whooping, or grinning, or flying over to hug the rest of the team. She just looks relived and a little annoyed as she lets her arm fall back down to her side. Letting Quidditch craw back into my mind, I do the math for the current points. Yep, we've definitely won the match. But we're twenty points short of winning the Cup. Wonderful. Absolutely fan-freaking-tastic.

Realizing that they've won the Cup for the first time in Merlin knows how long, all of the Hufflepuffs and their supporters break into an eruption of ecstatic screaming. "Let's fold this up," Quin says glumly beside me. Still slightly dazed, I help him fold the banner, avoiding looking at it too much. There's something awkwardly tacky about it that loudly highlights our loosing. Right now I'm very, very glad that nobody in this house was optimistic enough to get butterbeer for the common room just in case we won the Cup and were up to some celebrating.


	6. Mirror, Mirror

**Mirror, Mirror…**

* * *

Dom wheels his trolley over beside mine and we run through the barrier from platform 9 ¾ to the rest of King's Cross, where flocks of wizard and Muggle families wait for their kids to come trough. Up ahead I spot Mum, Dad, and Eliza, who are scanning the crowd for any sign of me and Bea, as well as comfortably chatting with Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione.

"Erik!" says Dad brightly, quickly noticing me. He wraps me up in a warm embrace and takes my trolley as I move on to hug Mum. Ron, Hermione, and Jack wander off to fetch the ever uncatchable (it's a word if I say it is) Ivy after saying hello.

"Guess what?!" Eliza bursts out as soon as Mum lets go of me.

"You've got glasses," says Bea, having just come through the barrier.

"Yep! I've had them for two whole weeks already," she tells us brightly, proudly nudging her glasses up her nose. They're oval shaped with shiny bronze frames. As Eliza's busy showing off her new glasses, Dom wanders up from where his own parents are standing just a little way away. I reach out, grab his arm, and pull him over.

"People, this is Dominic Peatry, but you can call him Dom," I introduce him. "Dom, this is my family: Mum, Dad, and my sister Eliza; and believe it or not, no, she's not adopted. You've already met Bea before, I think." They all say 'hi' to each other and Eliza aims a not-so-subtle kick at me.

Dom's parents come a bit closer, watching the proceedings like a pair of 800 pound gorillas, even though neither of them looks like they actually weigh 800 pounds. Or like gorillas, for that matter.

"Oh, er, and these are my parents," says Dom, finally noticing them. "This is Mum, and this is Dad."

"It's Mrs. Peatry, right?" asks Mum, amused, as she shakes her hand. I look Mr. and Mrs. Peatry up and down. They're obviously older than Mum and Dad; in their early forties, I'd guess. Mrs. Peatry's sort of skinny and has short, curly, dark hair. I don't think she's quite got the hang of dressing as a Muggle, as she's wearing a very narrow knee-length skirt and a floral blouse that even I, a twelve year old boy, can tell is a fashion train wreck. Mr. Peatry's a plum bloke with light brown hair and a pointy nose that's somehow just not as cool as Uncle Ron's.

"Hey Erik, d'you want to come over some time this summer?" offers Dom. He then leans in and whispers, "I'll probably die of boredom if you don't, but no pressure."

"Sure," I grin.

-

I sit at the kitchen table, casually flipping through the Sports (well, mainly Quidditch) section of the Daily Prophet. Dad's sitting across from me, sipping his coffee and munching on a sausage. It's a hot and languid Saturday morning about a week into the summer break. I open my mouth, then close it; thinking about how to word what I'm trying to say.

"I was thinking of maybe joining the Gryffindor Quidditch team next year."

"Alright," says Dad slowly, as he can tell that this is leading somewhere.

"I've got a bit of a problem, though." He nods for me to continue.

"Well, the thing is... I suck. A lot. I can barely fly in a straight line."

Dad bursts out laughing and I wilt just a little. "Don't worry; I'm sure it's nothing that some practice won't cure. You can't be that bad." I raise a skeptical eyebrow. _Now can't I? _

"If you really want to be on the Quidditch team, I promise that I'll help you practice as much as you need," he reassures.

An hour later, we file into the little garden shed in the back yard to fetch two of the broomsticks that sit there (there's three total, though the third is quite old and rarely used), waiting for someone with the desire to fly to come by. He leads the way into the woods that lie beyond our yard, where the air is cooled by all of the trees and shade. In the woods is a small clearing that's well out of sight of the roads and perfect for flying.

"Now, the first thing that you've got to remember about flying is that you're riding the broom; it's not riding you. Just be careful not tosteer _too_ hard," Dad instructs. "Well, hop on."

He comfortably mounts his own broom and kicks off. I do the same, relieved that I can at least get myself into the air without problem. Dad looks relieved, too. "Alright, good, follow me."

Dad flies straight ahead at an easy pace. I push forward lightly, going right beside him. Tilting gently, he turns to the right. Uh-oh. I try to mimic him, but my broomstick just won't turn properly. I jerk harder, turning at a sharp angle and crashing into Dad.

"Oops."

"Ah," he says, seeing the problem, "turning. Let's see how you do it now…"

We keep at it until lunch time, practicing turns until I can finally manage to do them without crashing or loosing control. The trick's to find the right balance between steering (from right to left, like) and leaning in the intended direction, so that you don't turn too sharply or tip over.

-

For the next month, Dad and Mum keep practicing flying and Quidditch with me every weekend, and I fly a lot during the week too, when there's nothing else to do. It's amazing how much a load of practice can help. Who knew that I could actually become _good_ at it? But that won't be certain till I manage to get on the team and play in some actual games. I've decided to try out for Chaser, by the way, and I'd never before properly appreciated the fact the Mum herself once played that position professionally. She's great at teaching how to catch and throw while on a moving broomstick. I still sometimes miss the ball, but it's a _long_ way from where I'd started.

As I'm kneeling/sitting on the grass in the back yard and leaning back against a tree, distracted from my current book by thoughts of Quidditch, a Great Grey owl swoops up and lands on a nearby bush. It blinks at me expectantly. I untie the letter tied to its leg, already knowing who it's from. The Great Grey is Charcoal, the Peatrys' family delivery owl. I unfold the letter and start reading.

_Erik,_

_Guess what?! I asked Mum, and she said that you can come and stay over this weekend! From Friday till Sunday would work. I can't wait! If you want to come over, owl me. If you don't want to come, I'll drag you here anyway. Just joking. Or am I?? As usual, I've been keeping sane mostly by hanging out with anyone who'll hang out with me. Our very few non-boring neighbors; a few people from school; you get the idea. What've you been up to? Not crashing into trees anymore?_

_See you (hopefully) soon,_

_Dom_

Leaving the letter on the ground, I hop up and run inside to ask Mum, who's just come back from work, if I can stay over at Dom's. I'm as excited as he is, as I've never really spent the weekend at someone else's place before (not counting relatives, as I practically half-live at Fiona's).

-

…_pajamas: check, two T-shirts: check, toothbrush and toothpaste: check. _I go through a mental list of stuff that I needed to pack; yep, got everything. I sling my smallish green duffle bag over my shoulder and canter down to the living room.

"Got everything?" ask Dad. I nod silently. "Bye then, see you Sunday night; behave at the Peatrys', or else."

"Bye," I say cheerfully, knowing that he's joking about the 'or else' part. Er, I think. Grabbing a pinch of Floo Powder, I throw it into the fire and step in, stating Dom's address. It's somewhere in Liverpool, if I remember right.

Seconds later, I tumble out of the Peatrys' fireplace, sprinkling ashes all over the slightly threadbare beige carpet. I look around, taking in the entire sitting room. Despite my not having much taste in interior decorating, I can tell that Mrs. Peatry's bad taste isn't limited to her clothes. The walls are covered with hideous light brown and maroon wall paper (who even uses wallpaper these days?); what could've been a decent leather couch is draped with an old-ladyish, crocheted throw blanket; and there are wizarding photos sitting around in curly, purposefully blackened, metal picture frames.

"You're here!" exclaims a bright, familiar voice. The voice is quickly followed by Dom, swinging around the doorway into the sitting room.

"Yes I am," I say for no reason, really. I step forward and give Dom a hug. "So, what's up?"

Dom shrugs vaguely. "Not much."

Over his shoulder I spot Mr. Peatry, this time dressed in ordinary wizards' robes, standing in the doorway. "Hello, Erik," he says holding out a hand. Is it just me, or is he a little uncomfortable? Mmm, whatever.

"Hello, Mr. Peatry," I say rather more politely than when talking to Dom, shaking his hand. I have to think about how it's done, as I'm far from used to shaking hands with people. I almost never do it for some reason.

"Come on, I'll show you where my room is," says Dom. He leads the way out to the stairs, up to the first floor, and into the room on the right. One of the first things that I notice about it is that it definitely wasn't decorated by his mother. (Since when have I become Martha Stewart??? Oh, and don't even ask how on earth I know who she is. It's a strange story best saved for another time.) The blanket that's half-falling off the bed is a loud shade of cerulean; schoolbooks and mags are messily stacked in a corner; the window is wide open to welcome in any passing breeze; and something is set up across from the bed, but I can't quite tell if it's a mattress or a very thick pile of blankets.

"Mum can't conjure to save her life," Dom informs me conspiratorially, noticing the last thing that my eyes land on.

"That's OK, I've slept in worse conditions," I tell him lightly, dropping my bag onto the floor. It's quite true, you know. I've slept on an almost bare floor, in an armchair, and have once shared a large and very comfortable bed with Jack. I think that the last was probably the worst. Go figure.

-

"Boys, dinner!" Mrs. Peatry loudly calls us to a somewhat late supper.

We canter down to the kitchen, where four places are set and Mr. Peatry is already sitting at the table. Everyone helps themselves to roast, boiled potatoes, and salad; which turn out to be perfectly edible but boring.

"So, Erik," says Mr. Peatry just as Dom opens his mouth to say something, too. I don't think he noticed. "Your father is Harry Potter, isn't he?"

"Er, yeah," I confirm, a bit bewildered about the obviousness of the question

"Going to be a great wizard just like your dad, eh?" he chuckles, Mrs. Peatry joining in.

I squirm in my chair. This is getting more awkward by the second.

"The boy's still got plenty of time for figuring all that out," Mrs. Peatry kindly informs her husband. She turns to me. "But you must tell me, dear, what _is_ it like to grow up in such a well-known family? It must be an awful lot to live up to."

"It's alright," I shrug. My foot stealthily wanders under the table until it finds Dom's. I step on his toes, hoping that he'll rightly interpret it as a plea for help.

"Did you hear about that wizard who was caught doing inappropriate things to his omnioculars?" Dom randomly asks the table at large. I sigh in relief.

Dom's parents get identical bemused looks on their faces. "The wizard who was caught doing what to his what?" Mr. Peatry asks.

"It happened a few days ago at the Leaky Cauldron," Dom tells me matter-of-factly. Now that Mr. and Mrs. Peatry have laid off in their confusion, I really am curious. "A maid waked in and caught him in the act."

"Where'd you hear this?" I inquire.

"On the wireless; they were talking about it because the cleaning lady had filed charges for 'mental trauma', or whatever it's called."

My eyebrows rise meaningfully. "Did they say what exactly he was doing to those omnioculars?"

Dom shakes his head. We both sit there silently for a while, thinking about what exactly that wizard could have been doing to the omnioculars. I come to the conclusion of what, but there's still the question of how, and even more importantly, _why_.

After everybody finishes eating, Mrs. Peatry flicks her wand at all of the dishes, making them fly off of the table and into the sink, where they begin to wash themselves. "Dom!" she calls out as we're leaving the kitchen.

"What?"

"There's a basket of your clean laundry by the scullery. I want you to put it all away this evening," she answers before following her husband to the sitting room.

Grumbling, Dom grabs the said basket and stalks up the stairs, with me following a few paces behind. "You know, you sound like a peeved badger when you do that," I comment. Dom grumbles even more about it, but this time it's less distinct, making him sound even more like an angry badger. I snigger.

"You're just jealous of my special skills," Dom huffs, amusement leaking into his voice. Pulling open the top drawer of his dresser, he begins to sort the laundry.

I glare at him, pretending to be an offended mouse, complete with twitchy nose and everything. After a few seconds we both crack up. He, in turn, starts running around the room flapping his arms.

"Ummm, a pigeon?" I venture.

"No!" he declares and keeps running and flapping his arms, but throws in some running on all fours and pecking the ground, too.

"A hippogriff!" Having guessed right, I snap my arms and legs together and crawl along the floor by bending my legs so that my bum sticks up in the air and then straightening out, which moves my upper body a little ways forward. I inch like this out of Dom's room and up and down the hall, occasionally rolling over and not doing anything at all. He's having problems guessing from laughing so hard.

After hours of fun, Mr. Peatry comes up just in time to see Dom's impression of a rabid tree frog. Instantly, his expression changes from peaceful sleepiness to a surprised I-don't-even-want-to-know-what's-going-on-here look. I think that it's simple minded of him; after all, what's so abnormal about Dom hopping all over the place and trying to bite anything that'll fit into his mouth (a chair, a wall, my leg, etc.)?

-

I wake up first on Sunday morning and quietly creep downstairs, so as not to wake him. I'm about to walk into the kitchen when I hear Mr. and Mrs. Peatry talking about something just on the other side of the wall. The reason I stop is because that that something is me. Unable to resist the urge, I stand there quietly, out of sight, listening in. The feeling that I shouldn't be doing this creeps up in the area just behind my bellybutton, but I shove it down and tell it to shut up until I'm done.

"…wouldn't have thought that the Potters would bring up such a, well, _odd_ boy," says the gossipy voice of Mrs. Peatry. Mr. Peatry makes a noise of agreement and I hear a soft rustling of paper; probably him turning a page in the newspaper.

"Of course, boys will be boys," Mrs. Peatry goes on in a mildly understanding way. "But really, that Erik is rather on the wild side, wouldn't you say? I mean, with the way he was sliding on the banisters yesterday…"

"Hmm, you're quite right, Johanna," says Mr. Peatry. "The boy _is_ rather more flamboyant than most kids these days."

Mrs. Peatry tuts, "makes you wonder what goes on in those Potters' home. It can be _shocking_ how different some people's public lives are from their private ones, you know."

As I listen, a nasty feeling grows in my gut. I'd never thought that anyone would talk about my mum and dad from meeting me. I haven't been that bad, have I? I'm strange, yes, but not rude or anything, right? Still, the worry of what Mr. and Mrs. Peatry now think about what Mum and Dad might be like at home gnaws at my insides. I'm not stupid, you know, so I know that when people aren't sure about something, they tend to think of the worst possible scenario. (Or at least what would be worst to them) For the rest of the day, I try to act a little more sanely, if only to convince Mrs. Peatry to not go around gossiping about the rest of my family. Who knows what she might say?

-

"Hmm," Mum hums, scanning mine and Bea's school supply lists. The owls from Hogwarts came about a week after my stay a Dom's. Now we're at Diagon Alley, which is packed with flocks of witches and wizards. Many of them are kids and teens doing their Hogwarts shopping, followed by worn out parents who are trying, and often failing, to keep track of them.

"Books will be easy," says Mum. "Bea only needs a couple of new ones and Erik can just have her old ones. You'll both need to restock your potions supplies…"

First, we stop at the crammed, funny smelling Apothecary, which is nice in its own weird way. Bea and I gather what we'll need for the year while Mum and Dad chat with the sales lady. Eliza curiously inspects the various stuff on sale, stopping every once in a while to sniff or poke something.

Mum pays for the supplies and we head off to Gringotts to fetch money for the rest of the shopping. The ride in the cart is as fun as usual, with the way it twists and turns, speeding along its confusing track. The goblins, which are polite but gruff to everyone else, are a bit wary of Dad for some reason. When I ask him about it, he just smiles mysteriously and fondly stares off into some long-lost time. I make a mental note to wheedle it out of him later.

"Alright you two," says Mum, squinting in the bright sunlight once we come out of the dark bank. "Let's go to Madam Malkin's to get your new robes."

Eliza wrinkles her nose at the idea of tagging along as Bea and I get measured. Noticing this, Dad suggests to her, "Why don't we go visit the Menagerie in the mean time?"

Eliza brightens up immediately at the prospect of getting go look at and play with all sorts of colorful rats and bejeweled firecrabs and such while the rest of us are at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Knowing her, she could probably spend _hours_ in that place. I, however, troop after Mum and Bea.

Oh, yep, just my luck. There're already three other groups of people waiting to be served. This will _definitely_ take a while. Mum and Bea obviously don't mind, as they cheerfully scan the wide assortment of witches' robes hanging on the racks. I lean against the wall, idly watching the other shoppers and looking around. Orange-trimmed green robes? Eww. But that dark purplish-gray cloak looks alright…

"Erik," Mum calls from up front. I quickly gather my attention to notice that it's our turn. Oh goodie.

It takes the sales witch about fifteen minutes to finish measuring me. "I'll pick up your books," I tell Bea and hurry out of the shop. I go next door to Flourish and Blott's, one of my very favorite places in Diagon Ally. The bell above the door tinkles softly as I enter the comparatively quiet bookstore and take a deep breath; a_hhh,_ fresh new books.

Strolling through the tottering isles, I pick out the books that I know Bea needs to buy: _The Dark Arts Outsmarted_, _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 5)_, and _Wizardry Throughout the World_. Done with that, I find the fiction section, which is pathetically small. That's the sad part about most wizards: when it comes to stories, they can look up the word 'imagination' in the encyclopedia and still not quite grasp the idea of it. Because of this, there's a whole store filled with hundreds of books about magic, history, and sociology; but there are only two little shelves holding novels and story books. It's amazing (in a bad way) how so many people from such an exciting world can be so fixated only on plain, hard facts.

I wander off from this familiar section to watch a clerk struggling with a crate full of self-destructive black books. The poor old bloke can barely keep the merchandise from tearing itself to shreds before they have a chance to sell it. Looking closely, I see the title _To Live or Not to Live? (The Complete Guide to Dealing with Depression and Suicide)_ written in gold lettering on the covers. Well, that explains the self-destructiveness.

"Oh, hello there," says the wizard in a voice that would have been cheerful if he hadn't looked and sounded as if he'd just gone through a tumble dryer.

"Hello," I respond courteously, glancing at the crate of books with which he's still struggling. "Er, how're you doing?"

"Fine, fine…" he mutters distractedly. The wizard studies me for a moment, head tilted to the side. "Now what will you be needing, young Mr. Potter?"

I blink a few times, quite sure that I've never met him before. "How-"

The clerk laughs, "You look just like your father, Mr. Potter, and that is a face I would recognize anywhere."

I nod, still a little weirded out. I'm used to people telling me that I look like Dad, but I can't remember anyone recognizing me that way before. "I was just picking up my sister's school books," I tell him, indicating the stack in my arm.

"I see," he says kindly. "And will you be starting Hogwarts too? Or is still it one more year for you yet?"

"I'm a second year already," I tell him. Just as I finish saying this, Mum, Dad, Bea, and Eliza all flock inside. I hurry over to them to spare the awkward silence that would have undoubtedly ensued.

* * *

A/N: Gah! Sorry! I know it's been too long yet again since I've last updated. My plot bunnies were slightly squished by RL, but they have now somewhat recovered and are back to work. All reviewers can come play charades with Erik and Dom! 


	7. We Fly High

**We Fly High**

* * *

The lot of us stroll through King's Cross station, Mum and Dad pushing our loaded trolleys. Today's September 1, and it's so refreshing to be miraculously on time. I _knew_ there had to be a reason why Mum insisted on me and Bea packing throughout the week and making sure that we were done yesterday.

We reach the barrier between platforms nine and ten. After glancing around to make sure that no one's watching, Bea hustles through the barrier, followed by me and Dad, and then Mum and Eliza. We emerge on the much the less shiny platform 9 ¾, with its big, bustling crowd clouded over with the steam billowing from the large red steam engine, which does as rather bad job of blending in with the more modern Muggle trains.

I search the masses for the familiar flock of mostly-redheads, and quickly find them up by one of the front carriages. "Oy!" I shout, hurrying over to them.

"Ah, Erik," Fiona says by way of greeting, turning around to face me.

"Hi there, midget," Uncle Ron throws in, affectionately messing up my hair. As a general rule, only people who are at least a foot taller may refer to me as 'midget'. I viciously poke the rest.

The train blows its first warning whistle. "Come on," says Fiona, tapping me on the back the arm. "Let's go see who we can find." We take off down the platform, scouring the crowd left and right. Aha, there!

"Hey Hyacinth!" I call out. She waves back at us, hugs and kisses her parents good-bye, and come over to join us. Hyacinth is somewhat tall, has thick, hay colored hair that's pulled back in a French braid, and generally looks about a year or two older than she really is.

"What's up, you two? I've already found us a compartment."

"Hi, oh good," Fiona responds to both question and statement as we head back, the second warning whistle having rung out.

As soon as we reach our family, Aunt Hermione pulls us both into an embrace. "Good-bye, behave, and have a good term," she says, planting a kiss on each of our foreheads in turn before gently shoving us off towards the rest. We climb onto the Hogwarts Express and it takes off a minute later, gathering speed as we energetically wave to Eliza, Jack, and our assorted parents.

Once the train leaves the station, Fiona and I follow Hyacinth into the compartment with our stuff in it. A roomy metal cage sits on top of the trunks in the luggage rack, holding a young spotted owl.

"Aww!" squeals Fiona.

"Meet Octavia," Hyacinth says proudly, carefully bringing down the cage. "She's my new owl; I got her only a couple of weeks ago."

"Hello, owl," I say, reaching a finger through the bars to pet Octavia's soft feathers. She blinks at me with her big yellow eyes and gives a friendly hoot. Hyacinth opens the door of the cage and lets Octavia out, who flies a loop around the compartment and settles on Hyacinth's shoulder. There she clings for a while, curiously inspecting everything and occasionally ruffling her feathers and shifting from foot to foot, probably just for the fun of it.

"Hey, people!" Dom now randomly bursts in, carrying his bulky school robes, which he tosses on an empty seat. Apparently he'd left his trunk in a different compartment and then came to look for us. We all chill out, play Exploding Snap, and talk until the lunch trolley squeakily totters by. When it does, we buy and munch on what Fiona calls "alliteration-happy" sweets and snacks (Cauldron Cakes, Pumpkin Pasties, etc.).

A few hours later, as the train rolls through the wooded and very solid darkening mountains, Patrick drops by, doing his Prefect rounds. I introduce Dom and Hyacinth to him (but introducing him to them isn't needed, as they already know who he is through his Prefect status) and he compliments the later on her particularly cute owl.

"By the way," Dom asks idly once Patrick extracts his very tall self to continue making the rounds, "your sister's in fifth year now, right? Did they make her a Prefect, too?"

I slowly blink at him in a very clear 'are-you-freaking-kidding-me' type of way. "Bea, a _Prefect_?!?!" I squawk. "Are you sure we're talking about the same person here? You think that _my_ sister, Beatrice Nymphadora Potter, could actually become a Prefect?!"

"I take it she's not," Hyacinth puts in helpfully.

Fiona leans forward towards Dom and puts a comforting hand on his knee. "Hell _hasn't _frozen over yet, Dominic," she tells him in a gentle and patient tone that's normally reserved for either the truly insane or retarded.

"I see," he says simply and nods, having clearly gotten our point.

Minutes later, we finally reach Hogsmead. We pull on our identical robes, Hyacinth carefully picks up Octavia, who is back in her cage, and we trudge out of the train and into the cool, dark Hogsmead station. The hundred or so black carriages, which are pulled by invisible (at least to me) thestrals, patiently wait to take everyone in second year and over up to the castle, where there's a feast, a sorting, and another year about to begin. I'm filled up with an eagerness that probably won't last too long. Don't get me wrong, I like Hogwarts; but it's still school, whichever way you put it.

-

I nervously bounce on my toes, carefully inspecting everyone that's here at the team tryouts. Out of them, I only know Jason and Ivy's friend Jaimy. Earlier, I'd thought that these first couple weeks of term had been stressful. Today I realized that I'd been dead wrong, because they've been a relaxing Barbadian holiday compared to toady: the day of the Quidditch tryouts. True, I've been practicing all summer, but was it enough? What if I suck compared to the rest? What if the rest of the team doesn't think I fit in? What if this shoddy old school broom that I have to use for right now stops me from doing my best?

"It can't be that hard," Jason tells me in a failed shot at confident reassurance when I share a few of my worries. "I mean, yeah, we're about the youngest ones here, but we'll stand a chance. Being older doesn't make them better players. Er, right?"

I clamp my jaw shut to hold in a whimper. "Yeah, of course," he frantically comforts himself when I fail to do so. "It doesn't matter that the rest of the Keepers are all bigger than me, and have probably played longer…"

There are twenty people at the stadium now (not counting the current team); around ten for each of the open positions. Linda Carlin, the new Gryffindor team captain, has a look of dead set determination as she examines all of the hopefuls. I don't blame her, as she's got an up-a-straight-wall battle to fight in trying to whip up a decent team this year. And oh Merlin's saggy left buttock, she looks ready to do some serious ass whipping.

The first thing that she has us do is to fly a lap around the pitch, to check out our skills in that matter. A third year and a fourth year are immediately sent off. "Alright people," Linda says loudly after kicking out the inadequate fliers. "First to go will be the Keepers. Line up."-They hastily obey- "One by one you'll take your turn at the hoops. Our current Chasers will take five shots, and you must save as many of them as you can. First up!"

The first one up is Jaimy, a good-looking fourth year boy with curly dark hair. I see Ivy mouth "good luck" to him before tossing the Quaffle to the other Chaser. She takes a fairly simple shot (which is probably the best she can do), which he easily saves. Ivy goes next, subtly leaning toward the right hoop. He hesitantly drifts that way, but just as she's about to throw it in, Ivy leans over and throws the Quaffle around him toward the center one. Jaimy shoots out his arm, managing to make a desperate save with his fingertips. We prospective Chasers applaud; it looks like he might stand a chance. Well, now nobody can accuse Ivy of going lightly on her friend. Jaimy soon walks away looking very pleased with himself, having saved all five shots. The rest are rather unremarkable, though Jason manages to save four out of five. I admit that it's more than I'd expected.

"Chasers!" calls out Linda. We automatically get in a line. She explains that's she'll play Keeper and we'll have to work with the other Chasers to score goals. The Beaters will aim Bludgers at us to see how well we duck. The first girl is alright, but on one shot she misses the hoop so miserably that Linda doesn't even have to try to save it. The second, a bloke who is way older than me, turns out to have decent aim, but can't tell that the Quaffle is about to be thrown to him till it hits him in the face.

"Next!" Linda calls after sending him on his way. I mount my broom, kick off, and join Ivy and the other Chaser; a bespectacled fifth year girl whose name I think starts with an 'S'. Taking the Quaffle, I soar towards the goal hoops. _Hmmm, a vague approach might be good here…_

From the corner of my eye, I glimpse a Bludger zooming at me with malevolent intentions. Eek! As I roll over on my broom to preserve my head, I spot Ivy a little way below to the left and toss her the Quaffle. She catches it and languidly scores a goal.

She passes the Quaffle to the other girl, who flies at the hoops. Determined to score this time, I meet her eyes. She passes me the Quaffle and I finally score! Woo! Linda gives me an approving look and I would've done a happy dance if I wasn't sitting on a broomstick fifty feet up in the air. We keep at it for three more shots, two of which I somehow make.

Finished, Linda nods at me and yells, "Next!" As I'm flying down, Ivy holds up her hand for a high-five, which I return enthusiastically. Her being one of the other Chasers definitely helped, as we'd played Quidditch together loads of times before and I can practically read all of her little hints about what to do next and such.

-

Is it just me, or are the lessons getting more boring by the day? In most of the classes it's all been theory, theory, theory with hardly anything practical. The teachers say that it's because we're doing harder spells now and need to know more background info, but whatever. The only exceptions are History of Magic (well, duh) and Herbology. I'm not that much into plants, but at least Professor Longbottom (I'm still sometimes tempted to call him Neville, like I did when I was little) has us do actual gardening instead of making us just read about the plants.

History of Magic is, of course, mostly bookwork too, but it's of the _interesting_ sort. We're learning about Hogwarts and its founders right now, and Ayala's somehow found tons of fascinating facts, tidbits, and insights on them that I've never heard mentioned before. As always, she also lets us talk a lot in class and say what we think. Ayala tries to keep us from getting _too_ loud and off-topic, but that doesn't always work out very well, so she's even had to duck a few points from a couple of people before, and then threaten to do the same to others. Oh and by the way, she's now got this awesome hairstyle where the front of her head is in cornrows while the rest of her hair hangs loose.

But I've got more pressing matters right now. "_Fiona_," I plead. We're in the common room and about to go down for breakfast. "Can I _please_ borrow your Potions essay?"

She gives me that Look. You know, the one she'd inherited from Aunt Hermione; the one that's meant to make you feel like an irresponsible, irritating little prat. I continue begging, "Pretty please? You know how strict Goldman will be."

"Fine, but you own me one," she gives in, handing me her foot long Potions essay.

"Thanks! I love you!" I give her quick, tight embrace and hop to it. I whip out my own incomplete essay and start scouring hers for information that I haven't written down yet. As is called for in such situations, I use the fanciest, most fluffed-up language I know so as to distract from any possible lack of intelligence in what I'm actually saying. Or should I say writing.

As I finish off my last sentence, Fiona comes up to me. The look on her face declares '_guess what?_'

"What?" I ask aloud, handing back her essay. She jerks her thumb back to the notice board. I rush over, wondering what I'll see. My lungs go on a temporary strike.

There, in the middle of the notice board, is a large piece of parchment with the words _Gryffindor Quidditch Team Roster_ scrawled across the top. I carefully scan the list.

Seeker/Captain: Linda Carlin

Keeper: Jaimy Sullivan (_Looks like he made it_, I think. _No surprise there, but Jason'll be disappointed._)

Beaters: Robert Clarkson, Phineas McBride

Chasers: Ivy Weasley, Sofia Moreira, Erik Potter

First practice will be on Saturday, Sep. 19, at 5:00 P.M.

I stare at the last name on there for several seconds. Then it finally hits me. "WOO HOO!" I whoop, leaping up in delight. I then proceed to do the Happy Dance, the exact moves of which are free to personal interpretation. And yeah, for me that includes doing an almost successful cartwheel.

"I can't wait till the practices start," I gush to Fiona as we walk out of the portrait hole. "It'll be so awesome. And then the actual games…"

As we're walking along, I suddenly stop as if having ran into a wall, because something really obvious just occurred to me. "I'm going to need a broomstick of my own, aren't I?"

"No shit," Fiona says, suppressing her laughter. "Were you planning to grow some wings?"

"Don't rub it in," I tell her. "I'm allowed my slow moments. Merlin knows you've got yours."

-

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Oh yeah! Woo hoo! Guess what? I'm on the Quidditch team! I can't wait for the practices and games to start up! The rest of the team seems like a pretty good lot, but I'm a bit worried about the new captain, Linda. She looks like she'll be really though. All of that practice with you over the summer _so_ paid off. Thanks for that. By the way, what's up with you two and Eliza? How're Felix and Saga? School's been alright here._

_Oh, and by the way, I'm going to need a new broomstick. Soon. Well, more like ASAP. Pleeease??? I know that it's short notice, but I really, really need one. Please?_

_Needy hugs,_

_Erik _

I send the letter off later that night with the borrowed Octavia. The first Quidditch practice will be in four days, so I'll need that broom as soon as physically possible. Now I've just got to hope that Mum and Dad are in a giving mood.

-

I spend the next two days freaking out about my lack of a broomstick nonstop until a peeved Hyacinth finally asks me if I'm training to fret for Scotland. From then on I do my best to tone it down enough to keep at least half of my mind on other things; but that doesn't stop me from combing the air at every meal to see if their reply has come.

It's lunch break on Friday as I stand around with Jason and Dom in the breezy courtyard, talking about some new rock-like band that they've lately started playing on the wireless. The other two mostly hold up the topic, since my attention span's been about the same as that of a goldfish lately. As I vaguely stare at Jason, I notice a funny shaped, moving shadow move across the courtyard. Huh? I look up and let out an ecstatic squawk of glee.

Three owls: Saga, Ron and Hermione's owl, and Grandmum and Grandad's owl, slowly but steadily flap towards us, carrying between them a long, thin package that can only contain a broom.

"It's here! It's here!" I yell, jumping up and down. Dom and Jason whip around just in time to duck as the tired owls dump the wrapped broom on the stone bench beside us. Saga gives a muffled hoot, indicating the letter clamped in her beak.

I grab the letter and rip it open, hurriedly thanking her.

_Dear Erik,_

_Congratulations! We were both happily unsurprised to hear that you've made it onto the team. You're bound to do wonderfully. We know that trying to play without a broomstick of your own would be out of the question, so here it is: your new Nimbus 4003. Take good care of it, because it will have to last for a while._

_We're all good. From what your dad and I can tell, Eliza and Jack have been working on some type of fort/hovel/whatever out in the woods all week. Their hours-long absences have mostly been marked by the abnormal quiet and the steadily vanishing stuff, such as an old blanket, a couple of boxes, a soup ladle, and sometimes even the cat. If you want to know what they're up to, you should ask Eliza, as we probably wouldn't get half of it even if they told us. You kids are so strange sometimes…_

_Love,_

_Mum and Dad_

_P.S. That broom counts as a _very_ early Christmas present, for your information!_

Done reading, I shove the parchment into my pocket and start to vigorously tear off the rough brown paper wrapping. Dom and Jason are eagerly helping me before I even get the chance to touch it myself.

My shiny new broom rolls out in about tree seconds flat. Its glossy oak handle is slightly curved to make it easier to sit on, the tail twigs are all carefully shaped and curved to prevent drag, and the tail is attached to the handle with sleek and sturdy brass bindings. In the upper corner, scrawled in gold, are the tiny words _Nimbus 4003_.

I carefully pick up the broomstick, examining it further. It's exactly the right weight, heavy enough so that I don't get blown away in a strong wind and light enough for me to carry with ease. I hold it upright with the tail tip touching the ground and see that it's just slightly longer than I am tall. Hmmm, they definitely don't call it the best non-professional level broomstick for no reason.

"Oooo, can I hold it?" asks Jason. I let go of the broom, which floats at about two feet above the ground (perfect mounting height). Jason takes it up for some thorough admiration. The unfortunate bloke's been a bit moody lately because he hadn't made it on the team.

-

"- isn't it just the greatest broom ever? I'm so glad Mum and Dad got it right away instead of waiting a couple of weeks. I mean, I wouldn't have been surprised if they had, but now I'll get to have it for the first practice tomorrow," I ramble on contentedly to Fiona. We're lounging around in the common room as the sky outside slowly darkens to a shade of purplish-gray-blue, a bit like a bruise, only prettier and less painful.

She grunts irritably from her spot in a large squishy armchair. My shoulders sag at her complete lack of interest.

"Meh, it's not your or your retarded broom's fault," Fiona grumbles.

"What's wrong then?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Fiona then dives into a detailed explanation of _exactly_ what's wrong. I wish I hadn't asked. Apparently she's got what I think grandmum would call "lady problems". _Urgh, that's nasty… Eww. And those sound downright painful… I am so glad I'm not a girl…_

A while later, after Fiona's done complaining, I trudge up the dormitory stairs with my new _Nimbus 4003_ over my shoulder and my head full of a load of nasty new information that I try very hard to shove into a closet in the deepest, darkest corner of my mind. It might come in useful one day. _Riiigh_; doubt it.

* * *

A/N: So, what do you think? Love it? Hate it? All reviewers get a shiny new broomstick… 


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